“What can I do for her?” said Bolingbroke.
The physician shrugged. “Care for her. Love her. What else can a husband do for a wife?”
Bolingbroke turned away.
News traveled quickly down the waterways of Flanders, and when the party awoke the next morning it was to find that the Count of Flanders had sent a commodious barge to take them upriver to Ghent. It was fitted out with couches and linens and comforts of all degree and had a cool green arbor covering half its length to keep at bay the sun.
Bolingbroke did not want to move Mary so quickly, but she seemed much better after her night’s rest, and ate well to break her fast, and professed such a great desire to see Ghent and to absent herself from the hostel, that Bolingbroke gave in, and by midmorning the party had boarded the barge and cast off.
Bolingbroke so fussed over Mary where she lay on a couch that, finally, she sent him away to where Neville sat with Salisbury and Courtenay in a patch of sun talking to the captain of the count’s escort.
Mary watched him move off, then smiled at Margaret who sat amid a pile of cushions at Mary’s feet. Further down the barge Agnes and Rosalind lay curled up together, fast asleep.
“He does not care that I lost the child,” Mary said, and her smile slipped.
Margaret’s heart broke. “He does care for you,” she said.
“Oh, aye,” said Mary, and Margaret winced at the bitterness in the woman’s voice.
“I thought you would be pleased that he -was not angry,” Margaret said. “Was that not what you feared?”
“Aye,” said Mary and relapsed into silence for a minute. “But he wept too little then, and now he fusses too much. He does not know how to hide his indifference. I would prefer anger to indifference, Margaret.”
Margaret moved a little closer to Mary and took her hand. “Hush, Mary.”
“He has what he needs of me,” Mary said, her eyes brimming with tears, “he had that long ago, and I do not think he wants a son of me now. I… I do not know what he wants, Margaret, but I know he does not want me.”
“Anyone can see that you are the perfect wife for Bolingbroke—”
Mary pulled her hand from Margaret’s clasp. “You should become better acquainted with the art of lying, my lady,” Mary said, “if you are to be of any consequence in Hal’s court.”
“Ah, Margaret, I am sorry. The loss of the child has made me bitter.” Now she reached out and covered Margaret’s hand with her own. “But I am very, very glad to see you looking well.
I shall laugh with happiness when your child is born and with that I shall make do.”
“Bolingbroke has never deserved you,” Margaret whispered, and this time Mary knew she did not lie.
CHAPTER V
The Feast of St. Swithin
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Monday 16th July 1380)
RALPH NEVILLE, Baron of Raby and Earl of Westmorland, sat in the hall of his northern stronghold, Sheriff Hutton, and bounced his baby son on his knee. Several paces away sat his wife Joan, already swollen with their next child, threading a needle in and out of the seam of an infant’s nightgown.
The child laughed, and Raby smiled, grateful to have this time to spend with his new wife and son, but also chafing at his inactivity. He was a warrior, not a nursemaid, and he longed more than anything to be once more striding shoulder to shoulder with princes and kings across the field of action, or sitting with them in the parleying room, deciding the fate of nations.
But he would not be doing that for a long time… not unless Bolingbroke could manage the impossible.
Over the past weeks Raby had done his secretive best to scry out the level of support for Bolingbroke among England’s nobles. The support was there, but it was cautious … too cautious. While this baron and that earl mumbled angrily about Richard and de Vere, none yet would stand forth and say, “I have men and swords … and I am ready to stand at Bolingbroke’s side.”
No one wanted to be the first.
Raby stared at his son’s face, wondering what the future held for him. Would the Neville family’s influence—as its land holdings—be gradually whittled down as de Vere’s influence grew? Would this son, and any who followed, be reduced to grubbing about in the field behind a plow in order to eat?
He shuddered at the thought, and then castigated himself for his over-vivid imagination.
Richard would eventually commit himself to a stupidity so gross that men would die in the trampling rush to ally themselves with Bolingbroke.
It was only a matter of when.
“My lord?”
Raby jumped slightly. He’d been so engrossed in his son and his thoughts that he’d not heard his squire approach. “Yes, Will?”
“My lord, you have guests.” Will stood back, and allowed Raby to see who stood at the far end of the hall.
Raby took a slow, deep breath. Was this the time? Was this the man?
AS SOON as he saw Raby hand his child to his wife, dismissing both her and his squire with a curt gesture, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, nodded to his son and walked forward.
Raby met them halfway.
“I greet you well,” he said, looking between Northumberland and Hotspur, “if with some degree of surprise.”
“These are surprising times,” said Northumberland.
“You have ridden far?” Raby said, gesturing to the two men to accompany him back to the small semicircle of chairs set before the hearth.
“From York,” Northumberland said.
“And before that from London,” said Hotspur.
Raby glanced at the younger man. He appeared composed, but Raby thought he could see the disaster of Orleans lurking amid the shadows of the man’s eyes.
Raby handed cups of wine to Northumberland and Hotspur and sat down.
“We have never been the ones for polite conversations,” he said. “What do you here?”
“What?” said Northumberland, raising an eyebrow. “Can we not, just for once, be neighbors stopping for a cup of wine and the sharing of news before traveling on to our own home?”
Raby’s mouth curled. “You could … but I think you are not. I am tainted with treason through my association with Bolingbroke. I had thought Sheriff Hutton the last place you would want to stop for a gossip. So I say to you again, why are you here?”
“Perhaps if I relay to you some of the news from London then you may surmise for yourself
why I am here,” Northumberland said.
Raby inclined his head, and took a sip of his wine. “You have surely heard of Orleans,” said Northumberland. Again Raby nodded, unable to resist a glance in Hotspur’s direction. “I was undermined by Richard,” Hotspur said in a low, angry voice. “He directed me to Orleans and then refused to reinforce me.”
Raby shrugged. “Such is the wont of kings.” He hesitated, then decided it prudent to offer Hotspur some measure of support. “But it is too often others whose reputations must bear the burden of their stupidity.”
Hotspur nodded, and relaxed a little, slouching into his chair and draining his wine. “Richard’s stupidity is boundless,” Northumberland said as Raby rose and refilled all their wine cups.
“He has now decided that France is a lost cause for the time being. Instead, he has announced that he will himself lead England’s remaining army to Ireland in time to crown de Vere its king for Michaelmas.”
Raby halted in the act of putting down the wine ewer. “What?” “Imagine,” Hotspur muttered over the rim of his wine cup, “Richard leading an army anywhere!”
Both Raby and Northumberland ignored him. “How can he be so foolish?” Raby said.
“He will do anything to impress de Vere,” the earl replied. “Doubtless ‘dear Robbie’ whined on and on about wanting to rule Ireland in reality instead of in name only and wore Richard down.”
“But that would leave England vulnerable to …” Raby stopped, not wanting to say it.
Northumberland caught his eye, and nodded. “Indeed,” he said. Raby stared at him for a few long moments. Why was Northumberland here? What was his purpose?
“Richard has proved himself monumentally incapable of sitting upon the throne of England,”
Northumberland said, leaning forward and putting his wine cup down on a table. “If he is allowed to remain on the throne he will drive England to destitution within five years.”
Raby put his own cup down. “I ask you yet again,” he said in a cold, careful voice, “why are you here?”
“Hotspur and myself travel north not only to whisper of Richard’s latest escapades,”
Northumberland said, “but we also escort back to her ancestral home my daughter, Philippa.”
Raby frowned. “De Vere’s wife?”